Fruitless
by msllamalover
Summary: She doesn’t want a child. She most definitely doesn’t want to know about any other children either, especially of those, those blood traitors. Bellatrix can't stand children. Rated for some rather bad language.


_Disclaimer: Not mine, of course!  
Thank-yous: Kristen, who beta-d this for me.__  
__A/N: Bellatrix doesn't have children. I thought about what might happen if she couldn't have children, so I used that as a basis for her insanity. I hope you like it. Reviews rock my socks, so if you can spare one it'd be awesome!_

She doesn't cry. Oh no. She doesn't cry. No tears - that would be weakness. But she feels something brimming up inside her, threatening her masquerade, that stark mask.

Isn't he beautiful? Her _nephew_.

Isn't he simply marvelous? Her _nephew_.

There is no _beauty_ in childhood. It makes her feel fucking sick. She has to spend every waking bloody moment listening to the screams of her sister's darling little Draco. Because, fuck, doesn't that _brat_ ever shut up? Screaming _all_ the time. No longer is the mansion graced with her Dark Lord because of that fucking child.

'Don't you want one of your own?' Narcissa asks sympathetically. A screaming brat, smelling of sick and taking up time that could be spent in a multitude of better ways (_She can think of several off the top of her head.)_

They sigh. They try to make her happy. They fucking _pity_ her.

She doesn't want anything. She doesn't want their pity. She doesn't _want_ to be hugged by her sister. She doesn't want a gentle, _compassionate_fuck with Rodulphus. And she most certainly doesn't want a child. Why the fuck would she want that? To lose her figure, and to lose the respect and admiration _(she knows it's there. She knows it)_ of her Dark Lord.

She is trusted and knowledgeable, and she knows of the prophecy. A child, with a _Mudblood_ mother, no less, to remove Him. It makes her blood boil. But they will be taken care of, the Potters. And the world will be rid of one more screaming baby. Polluting them all with its innocence. She can't get rid of all the babies, but she had, in a good deed for the world, removed the Bones and all their _delightful, darling_ children. _(She doesn't want a child. She most definitely doesn't want to know about any other children either, especially of those, those blood traitors.)_

There is another child, sharing a birthday with the Potter brat. Neville Longbottom. Which meant that the quiet, awkward Longbottom boy she remembers briefly from Hogwarts (and that had been a _joke_too) had finally managed to find the balls to shag that half-blood bint of his. _Alice._ She feels like spitting of the name as she thinks of it. Thinks of _her_. She'd been possessed by the girl in Hogwarts, not love or like, a strange, secret obsession. She'd _hated_ her too.

And now she has a child. A darling baby boy. Well fan-_fucking_-tastic for her. _Mrs. Longbottom _would have been full of _pity_ for her, full of _pity_ for her childless situation, but why the _hell_ would she want pity from her? She doesn't want _anything_ from her. Blood traitor.

And yet…

No. Yet nothing. They all try to offer her _pity_ but she doesn't bloody _want_ pity. There's _nothing_ they can do. (_Nothing, and there's nothing she can do. Nothing in her imagination to improve the situation.)_

Nothing. As long as she doesn't have to _see_ them, _hear_ of them, be _around_ them. She starts with the Bones brats, the Potter child and avoids _darling_ Draco _(so like his father, they all say, one day he'll be a wonder. For now he's still just another fucking brat.)_

Every word, every _pointless_ piece of gossip is discussing, speculating, wondering about _babies._ She can't _escape._ She can't do it. She wants to forget about motherhood. She'll never be a mother. _Never._

She ignores the twist of something, the painful ache as she knows her womb will _always_ be fruitless. The ache leaves her with her as the power she desires takes over her soul. _(A soul is just some Muggle bullshit, something Muggles fool themselves with. She has no doubt that she has no soul. A small voice inside tells her that a mother must have a soul, but she kills the voice. Stone dead.)_

Every waking second, _every single moment_, is consumed with the knowledge that there is still the Longbottom baby, threatening her and threatening her Dark Lord. Threatening _everything_. All the walls she has built for herself, the reputation. She can feel the first few bricks _crumbling_. They are threatening to fall. _(One step, two step. We all fall down.)_

Her blood boils, her eyes narrow and her ever empty womb ceases to ache as she receives the permission she needed and the praise she craved _(something to fulfill her again, if only a little)_ to lead some Death Eaters to the Longbottoms' _charming family home._

A week later, a week of pure, _wonderful_ excitement, and she is on the doorstep, teeth bared in a grin so dreadful it strikes fear into the hearts of most who see it. Her hair is flying so _wildly._ She grasps her wand a little tighter, feeling the _power_ coursing through her body.

_(It is a thrill to feel anything racing through her body. The adrenaline makes her traumatized, black heart beat and she no longer cares about anything. She is feeling. She is above the feelings of women; she has the feelings of those who need no love. And she doesn't have to tell herself twice that it feels fucking perfect.) _

The few other Death Eaters _(lowly ones, who want nothing more than to be around someone with influence, though she is not flattered by them)_ loll on the sofas, destroying _(on Bellatrix's cold orders)_ the _lovely_ pictures of family, friends, and other worthless things.

She casts curse after curse. Their insanity is her insanity, but they _deserve_ it. _Flaunting_ their child. Meaningless, inconsequential fucking blood-traitors. They don't _deserve_ to have a child. They don't. They don't. They don't.

She thinks of all the things they would _teach_ their child. All the things they'd do. The more she thinks, the more intense her spells become. When they are reduced to nothing more than hollow shells of people _(still more than they deserve, actually, she thinks she's been rather kind) _she alone ascends to the nursery - yellow walled and _happy. _The child is asleep. And looking _just like_ the mother she has just destroyed. _(It fucking kills her that she'll never see herself in a child. She never acknowledges it. Never.)_

Her wand points into face, almost touching his fat body. Some sensation beats in her wand hand, threatening _(always threatening)_ to take over her. Something _disgusting_. Something _foul._ Something almost _maternal._ But not maternal. She fucking hates children. _Hates_ them. She stuns the child, silences him and leaves. This is the beginning. _(And the end.)_


End file.
